We Were Gods
by The DG Forum
Summary: There is no good or evil, only people and the choices they make. Now, as the wheel of Samsara turns, those who were mighty begin to fall. A story of Draco and Ginny over centuries.
1. Naraka

This story was written for **Ha'niqua** in _**The DG Forum Fic Exchange - Summer 2013 **_by a member of the forum. For more details please visit our page!

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**Author's Note: **With many infinite thanks to my beta.

This story is based heavily on Buddhist mythology, particularly on the realms of Samsara and karmic rebirth. However, the inspiration is just that – inspiration. This story is not perfectly accurate in terms of Buddhist tradition; although I have done my best to ensure precision in translating the themes, many significant changes have been made where perfect adherence would have impacted the necessary route of the story.

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**We Were Gods**

"Over the town, in the dark tempestuous night, backwards revolved the luminous wheel." – Malcolm Lowry, _Under the Volcano_

_Naraka_

_I:_

_Demons chatter outside the windows alongside the swallows._

_Morning is only just breaking, but he is already awake. The sounds from outside wake him early every morning, nowadays. He can't remember the last time he felt rested. He sighs and drags his freezing legs out from under the sheets. The swallows outside are a sure sign of spring, but inside, all remains icy. In spite of all the charms and spells, in spite of all the fires he builds, it was always cold._

_Pain shoots in darts up his legs at the impact of his feet on the floor, frozen and so cold it seems to burn him. His breath clouds the air, and outside the demons' shrieks overpower the birds'. _

_II:_

_It is too hot for springtime._

_She doesn't understand how the air could be so thick and stagnant, how she could awaken ten times in the span of a night, each time pushing off another layer of sheets, then clothing, until she is naked and day is breaking, and she hasn't slept at all._

_It is early morning when she slides from bed, unable to take the scalding heat of her mattress any longer. She hisses in pain as her feet touch the floor that's as hot as burning coals. _

_She tries yet another cooling charm, no longer expecting a result._

_Outside, a wild bird's scream sounds like diabolic laughter._

* * *

**Haz's Prompt**

**Basic premise:** The Malfoy line has been tainted over the centuries by the actions of some of the darker wizards on the family tree. These deeds have manifested themselves around the only living members of the line, encompassing almost every aspect of their every day lives: basically, it's bad karma

**Must haves:** Secrets, angst, tension, dark artefacts, Draco's "past" catching up with him

**No-no's:** Hogwarts era, fluff, no stupid character nicknames like "Girl Weasel"

**Rating range:** M or above

**Bonus points:** Smut, if Ginny and Draco are engaged/married hence Ginny being included as a member of the line, Malfoy Manor essentially warping into a Haunted House


	2. Tiryagyoni

_Tiryagyoni_

"Do you believe in karma?" Ginny murmured into the dark.

"_Karma?_" Draco rolled over to face her. The room was dark but neither was yet asleep, and Draco could see her silhouette illuminated by the light of the gibbous moon. "No, I don't." He laughed shortly. "Why do you ask?"

"I was reading a book today…" she hesitated, and touched his hip with cool, gentle fingers, and changed directions abruptly. "Why do you have a book about karma if you don't believe in it?"

"I'm sure there are books in the library about leprechauns, Ginny, but I don't believe in those, either," he said drily. "What was your point?"

"Oh, I was just wondering, what do you think you'd come back as?"

"Come … back as?"

"Well, when you die, you're reborn as something else. An animal. And good people get to be the really awesome animals, like tigers. And bad ones are slugs and worms and stuff like that."

"So you're saying people come back as animals? _That's_ what karma is?" Draco snorted.

Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes. "Never mind." She turned onto her side and closed her eyes. "Good night."

•••

Ginny ran her fingers along the things on Draco's desk, plucking up a paperweight at random and cradling it in her palm. She tossed it up and caught it a few times, bored of waiting for her husband to be finished with whatever paperwork he was dealing with.

"Are you almost done? The Quidditch match starts soon, you know." She put down the paperweight and began fiddling with an extra quill.

"Relax, Ginny. We'll be there with more than enough time." He rolled his eyes and made a few marks on a sheet.

She sighed and began to pace around the room, looking at the objects he kept in glass credenzas, although they were mostly empty now.

They lived at Malfoy Manor, but post-war – even so many years later – the place was not what it used to be. The fines placed on the Malfoys, among others, had been exorbitant, even most of the survivors in the Order had thought as much. But there was little to be done about it, and so the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, the Notts, all of them, were forced to sell what little they had left to pay reparations.

She fiddled with the clasp on one of the credenzas and pulled the doors open. This one was mostly empty, but she was certain there once was a time when it was full of objects of immense magical and historical value. She pulled out a small silver instrument that looked a bit like one of the lighters Squibs used. Ginny knew that he wasn't happy. She glanced over at Draco; his brow was furrowed and he nibbled on the end of his quill – a habit he had picked up from her. She knew that very well. The Manor was empty – a huge house filled with nothing, and no way to sell it or move elsewhere. No one would buy it, for one thing – the place Lord Voldemort himself had made a temporary home during the war wasn't really in high demand – and Draco, in spite of everything, was painfully attached to the place.

She sighed again, and this time he glanced up.

"Put that down!" he snapped suddenly; the look on his face scared her.

She dropped it, startled, and it bounced on the plush carpet.

"What …" she stepped away from it, afraid that it may have been cursed. "What is it?"

"It's …" he massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "I don't know what it is. It's just not something to touch. My father …" he hesitated, and he saw her lips turn slightly downwards, "never let me touch it, and I assume there must be a reason." He put his quill down and straightened the papers on his desk. "Let's go, Ginny, or we'll be late."

She followed him out the door, glancing warily back at the slightly shining object she left on the floor.

•••

They returned home late in the evening.

The Hollyhead Harpies had won by a sizeable margin, and Ginny was still on a high from it, even hours later.

"Did you _see_ the way Montague dove for the Snitch?" Ginny gushed, grinning. "Brilliant, I'm telling you. Just brilliant."

Draco rolled his eyes – he'd heard the same thing twenty times at least – and began to head to the stairs. "Did you want to come to bed, Ginny? Or are you still too worked up?"

"I think I want to finish reading that book, I left it in your study, right?" Draco shrugged. "In any case, I'll be up in a minute."

He turned away, and she slipped out of her shoes and padded softly across the hall.

The book, she saw by the light of her wand, was lying on his desk. She plucked it up and was about to turn away when a glimpse of something glittery caught her eye – the thing she'd let drop to the floor, still sitting between the threads of the carpet.

Ginny hesitated, but her curiosity had always been stronger than her caution, so she, guarding her hand with the loose cloth of her robes, picked the thing up and dropped it in her pocket.

Draco was already lying in bed by the time she got there, so she disrobed quickly and crawled in beside him.

He turned over. "How's the book?" he asked drily, poking her in the side.

She snorted. "None of your business." She kicked him under the sheets.

He put a hand on her hip and kissed her shoulder, peering over it at the book.

She shrugged him off, and he rolled onto his back, sighing and closing his eyes. She closed the book.

"Draco?" she murmured, knowing him well enough to know that something wasn't right – he never gave up that easily.

"Mmph."

"Are you okay?"

He cracked an eye open and peered at her. "Okay?" He snorted. "Did you see Potter tonight?" He sneered, opening his eyes fully and sitting up. "Did you see how smug he looked, with that blonde idiot hanging off his arm – how much do you think he has to pay her to hang around with him? What does it even matter?" He laughed bitterly. "He's got more than enough money to spare."

"Where is this coming from?"

He exhaled. "I don't know, Ginny. I don't _know._ You'd think that after all these years I'd be … I don't know. I'd care less about Potter. But I hate him, Ginny. For everything he's done, I still hate him."

Her face fell, and she kissed his cheek. "I know."

"I'm nothing to them, you know. No matter what's happened since the end of the war…I'm still _nothing._"

She wrapped her arms around him. "Draco, stop it," she said, kissing his jaw.

He pulled her closer kissing the side of her neck, her shoulder, her collar bone.

"Draco…" she whispered.

He reached up to push the strap of her nightclothes off, running his hands across her breasts as he pulled it down.

She reached for his underwear, tugging them off gently and wrapping her fingers around his half-erect cock. He leaned forwards to kiss her breasts, caressing them with firm fingers, running his tongue over her nipples.

"_Fuck me_."

_III:_

_He winces as water flows over his hands, water so cold that it burns and stings and feels as though tiny knives are digging into his flesh. It is not a pain he can get used to. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many thousands of years it feels like it has been, every day, every hour, every moment feels like the rebirth of a new pain. _

_He closes his eyes and grits his teeth and can see sparks behind his eyelids. Sometimes, he wishes there were someone with him. Someone with whom he could share this unending torture. But his world is an empty one. _

_When he speaks, only the walls speak back, throwing his own words around like child's ball, echoing over and over until his head spins. _

_He has learned it is best not to speak._

_IV:_

_She chokes on her scream. The sound she tries to produce gets caught in her throat, as if it is a noose, strangling her from the inside. _

_She tries to scream when she feels the sudden burn of water on her naked body. In her mind she sees her skin bubbling and peeling and charring, because that's what it feels like it should do. Nothing should be able to endure such pain and survive._

_She can no longer find the energy to cry. It has been too long. Whether a day or a thousand has passed, she doesn't know. All she knows is that her eternity is a burning, lonely hell._


	3. Naraka II

_Naraka II_

_V:_

_Every day he tries to leave._

_He pulls on door handles, he hammers on the windows, he slams his weakening body against the walls and doors, all in desperate silence. He won't give up; he decided when he first awoke in the freezing cold that he would never give up, that no matter what he would find a way out. _

_He grits his teeth and steels himself against the pain and pulls once more on the door, half expecting the handle to sprout icicle teeth and tear his hand away, just like it does in his dreams. _

_VI:_

_She cannot escape._

_Her resolve is breaking and with each passing minute of eternity she feels the distant memory of something better fading away. She tried and tried to get away at first, screaming and crying and begging for someone's, anyone's help. _

_But she is still here._

_The walls used to torment her. Oh, the walls were always the worst, with their leering eyes and jagged teeth and their voices so loud and deep they penetrated right through her bones. Those eyes, the paintings of scenes she may have once known; those mouths, the couches whose pillows were less comfortable than burning knives, they joined together, bending obscenely, stretching with the walls, towering over her, closing in until the eyes watched her from a distance no more than the span of her hand. And she had to look away from the little boy holding a lamb, from the night sky speckled with glittering stars, because she knew they would kill her – and even this hell was better than death, because maybe one day those eyes would close, and she would slip away into the cool unknown towards the things she only half remembered. _


	4. Asura

_Asura_

Gwynevere watched Erasmus from the corner of her eye. He wasn't much taller than she was, and in the dark of the unlit library, he looked pale enough to be a spectre.

"Why are we here, Erasmus?" Gwynevere said, a tinge of annoyance creeping into her voice.

The party, hosted by Gwynevere Black, was in full swing a few rooms away, but she and Erasmus Weasley were cloistered away from it all, brought to the library on his insistence.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said, something dangerous in his voice.

"About?"

"I found this in a credenza, Black." He pulled something small and silver from one of his pockets. "Do you even _know_ what this is?"

"What were you doing poking through my family's things?" Gwynevere snapped.

"That's not important – what's important is _this!_" He waved the object before her face. "I read about this thing, you know," he said. "Do you even know what it does?"

Gwynevere rolled her eyes. "Do you think I really care, Weasley?" She began to shove past him, but he grabbed her arm, digging his fingers firmly into her flesh.

"You're not going anywhere until you explain this."

"I don't know anything about it, Erasmus! If you're so bothered by it, why don't you just tell _me_ what it is?"

He let go of her arm.

"It's …" he hesitated a moment. "It's an instrument for removing magic," he said, quietly.

"Removing magic?" She scoffed. "Oh please, Weasley. You get more absurd as the days go by. Why would anyone want to remove a person's magic?" She laughed. "That's not even _possible._"

She brushed past him and back towards the party.

•••

It was perhaps an hour later when Erasmus pulled her away again.

"What do you _want_?" she snapped.

"I know you've used it," he hissed.

Gwynevere froze. "What are you talking about? I've never done such a thing." Her eyes darted towards the door.

Erasmus walked past her and pulled a book from one of the library shelves. "Do you see this," he said, balancing the object on the cover. "It's about a hundred years old, and judging by all the scratches around this hole, I'd say it's been used quite a few times. Don't pretend you don't know, Malfoy. You've been involved in this since the beginning. Blood purity…" he laughed bitterly. "What better way to ensure Muggleborns keep to themselves than by removing their magic? Isn't that right?"

Gwynevere remained silent.

"I said, _isn't that right?" _He was nearly shouting now, but Gwynevere said nothing, and he threw the book at her.

She darted to the side, and it clattered to the floor, falling open near the middle, and a voice began to intone, "_The Asuras live in a constant state of anger and jealousy, as they are unable to move past …"_

Erasmus shot a spell towards the book, and it fell silent.

"You used it, didn't you?" he said coldly. He raised his wand, but Gwynevere was quicker, and with a bright flash, the object he was holding tightly in his left hand was wrenched from his grip, and clattered to the floor between them.

"You don't know _anything_, Weasley."

Gwynevere turned to go, but Erasmus darted forwards and grabbed the object once more. He flicked a small silver lever on the top a few times, lips curling with barely contained rage, and pointed the little thing at her.

She barely had the chance to turn around before a thin little yellow wisp began to thread outwards from the back of her head, towards the object.

"You wouldn't," she whispered as her eyes began to glass over.

"You've done it," he growled. "So this …" he laughed. "You can consider this karma."

In the drawing room, Gwynevere Black's name began to fade from the family tree.

_VII:_

_As the sky outside darkens, he begins to wish – as he does every night – that he were not so alone. Somewhere far in his distant past he can remember that there were others. That once, before his life was an icy misery, he had known something else. That smiling faces once greeted him at doorways, that there had been warmth and sunshine, that he had been ... he stops his pacing and looks out the window, trying to remember what he had been. Something good, he thinks. He's sure that at one point he had felt something different than this, something better, but it's been too long, and he wonders if he will ever remember. _

_Now as the sun begins to set, his teeth chatter more violently, and pale hairs stand upright on his arms like quivering sentries. Somewhere outside a bird screams. And he wonders if the bird is as cold and alone as he is._

_VIII:_

_She can't touch anything. _

_The darkening room frightens her, holding within its corners the fiery pain of any unknown object. The tips of her fingers burn violently. Even without having touched anything at all, they feel hot – beyond hot – hypersensitive and tingling as if every tiniest of spaces on the pads of her fingers has been impaled with burning needles. _

_If only she weren't so alone, maybe then she might be less afraid. But her heart is heavy and the walls, she knows, will lean over her and threaten her with their burning eyes if she so much as tries to speak to the emptiness. _


	5. Deva

_Deva_

Abraxas Malfoy rolled his wand between his fingers, glancing briefly at his wife of just under two months, Angharad Prewitt, who stood halfway up the cold marble steps of the newly constructed Malfoy Manor. He surveyed the world like a god, and like a god felt inclined to decide who was worthy to live in it.

Angharad watched him, brushing long waves of red hair from her face, pushing them back as the wind continued to blow them forward. Her husband was a tall man – tall and powerful, and at times like these it was nearly impossible to forget it. Abraxas dwarfed the Half-blood who stood before him, between husband and wife, looking frantically between the former and the latter. Her husband's silvery-blond hair shone blindingly in the sunlight. She shielded her eyes with a hand to her forehead.

Abraxas raised his wand slightly, looking beyond the man, towards Angharad.

"What do you think?" he asked, gesturing towards the wizard.

"I think he'll be the one," she said, tightening her grip on her wand.

He smirked.

"_Stupefy,_" he hissed, and the man stumbled backwards.

•••

In the dark of their workroom, Angharad's hair seemed to burn like a beacon.

"He'll be the one," she murmured, running her wand over the body of the Half-blood, lying prone on a narrow, dirty cot. "I just know he will…"

Abraxas's lips quirked upwards in a wry half-smile. "You've said the same about the last three, and they all just died."

"Oh shut up and hold that, would you?" She gestured to the small, glittering mechanism on a nearby table.

A few minutes passed in near silence, but for her softly whispered incantations. A few beads of sweat gathered at her hairline.

Then, so suddenly that Abraxas almost jumped, the man on the cot began to wheeze and cough, and a thin, glitteringly yellow strand of something ethereal began to wisp from his mouth, led outwards by Angharad's wand.

"Hold it! Quick, hold it closer," she snapped.

Abraxas shoved the little mechanism towards her, holding it just above his throat, and Angharad fed the thin yellow wisp into a hole at the top of it. As the last of the substance coiled in, the man began to choke, his body convulsing and his eyes rolling wildly behind closed lids. The two watched curiously until he at last fell still. And then Angharad began to laugh.

"We did it!" she cried. "Oh Merlin, we finally did it!" She threw her arms around him laughing in desperate joy.

"Will it work?" he asked, disentangling himself from her arms. "We have to be sure it works."

"It will," she said, smiling. "Watch."

She waved her wand over the man's body, and as Abraxas watched the two of them, his eyes lit up, and he too began to smile.

Angharad put her wand down on the table, and Abraxas wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead.

"We're gods, now," he whispered, and a dark, gleeful smirk lit his eyes.

_XI_

_He reaches out to turn the handle of his bedroom door, wincing pre-emptively against the cold he expects to burn his hand. _

_It's warm._

_He draws his hand away quickly, startled by the change, and experiencing the unexpected warmth, after having become so used to cold, as something almost akin to pain. The most wonderful pain in the world._

_He tries again, unsure if his body is playing tricks on him – perhaps this is a precursor to death – but another touch of the handle proved it was still slightly warm. His heart swells, and he almost feels tears welling in his eyes. It is such relief. Such unparalleled relief._

_He turns the handle, pushes the door open, and feels warm air on his cheeks._

_X_

_She hisses in pain as she feels the usual searing burn of her bedroom doorknob. As she steps inside she braces herself against the wall of heat and reaches out to pull the covers back from her bed._

_The sheets are cold._

_She pulls her fingers away, shocked and still feeling the slightly numbing tingle of cold in her fingertips. She wiggles her fingers and stares at the bed. Then she reaches out again._

_Cool. Blissfully cool._

_She throws herself onto the bed, wrapping her excruciatingly hot body in the cold sheets, feeling cool, happy tears running down her cheeks, and she feels laughter bubble to her throat._


End file.
